She wore that same cool, impeccable smile she had perfected over the last weeks. It gave nothing away. It welcomed nothing in. And he doubted anyone but himself understood half its meaning.
Darcy stayed where he was. To walk across the room would mean acknowledging them. And he was not ready for that.
The Ashfords had found chairs. Mrs. Hurst was deep in conversation with a magistrate, gesturing vaguely toward the wine table.
A ripple of movement caught Darcy’s eye—bright silk shifting between coats and crinolines. Miss Bingley was crossing the room with impeccable poise, her gown a rich copper that flared precisely at the hem as she stepped. Her earrings caught the light with every turn of her head, and her smile was fixed in place like a brooch.
She paused just short of their circle, angling herself with practiced ease to face both him and Miss Ashford.
“Mr. Darcy. I believe congratulations are in order. You do have a talent for unexpected choices.”
“Miss Bingley,” he said, inclining his head. “May I present Miss Ashford. Miss Ashford, this is Miss Caroline Bingley, a long-standing acquaintance of my family.”
Miss Ashford dipped a very civilized curtsy. “Miss Bingley. We have not met until now, but I believe I know your name well.”
Miss Bingley curtsied with a genteel smile. “Miss Ashford, you are positively luminous tonight. Allow me to offer my warmest congratulations. Not every young lady manages to secure Mr. Darcy’s regard so swiftly. I imagine there are many who will be... quite surprised.”
Miss Ashford offered a demure smile. “You are very kind, Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, not at all. Kindness has nothing to do with it. One must simply admire what is obvious.”
Darcy kept his expression neutral.
Miss Bingley turned slightly toward him, her tone still light. “And you, Mr. Darcy. You have always shown such… independence in your choices. I confess, I had imagined your preferences leaned in quite another direction.”
He inclined his head. “Then I am glad to have corrected the impression.”
She laughed. “Ah, but the best men are always full of surprises. I only hope Miss Ashford will prove more agreeable than—well, than the alternatives one might have expected.”
Miss Ashford lifted an eyebrow, faint but unmistakable. “I should hope to be agreeable in any case, though I must admit I am curious what expectations I am now tasked with exceeding.”
“Oh, nothing you cannot manage,” Miss Bingley said smoothly. “After all, it is said that men of serious temper prefer quiet households. And women of—how shall I put it?—strong conversational habits do not always provide that kind of peace.”
Darcy felt the corner of his jaw tighten.
Miss Bingley smiled wider, just for him. “But I am certain you will be quite content.”
With that, she offered Miss Ashford a gracious nod and moved off, leaving behind a wake of rosewater and restraint.
Darcy exhaled again.
He tugged at his collar, then caught himself. Useless habit. He had chosen this. He had made the match. Miss Ashford was polite, lovely, and entirely reasonable. She would not demand too much. She would not look at him and ask questions he could not answer.
He turned back toward the fire.
And then he heard it.
A laugh. Low, bright, familiar. Not loud—but distinct. A flash of sound in the room’s gentle murmur, like silver on glass.
He did not turn at once. He looked instead at the flame, now split at the center and bending.
Miss Ashford said something—he did not hear it.
Then he glanced over his shoulder.
Elizabeth was still on the arm of Captain Marlowe, who stood with the unshakable posture of a man convinced he had won a prize. He spoke with enthusiasm, gestured too broadly, laughed too easily. His stance was all claim and confidence, as though simply being beside her conferred distinction.
Darcy could not hear what he said, but Elizabeth tilted her head in answer. She was listening. Not retreating. Not correcting him. Just standing there while the man preened.
